


Somewhere, Something Incredible

by kim47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kinkmeme prompt: Mycroft has known Lestrade for years now, and has had a crush on him since day 1. But he never did anything about it, because not only was Lestrade's hair less grey back then, but Mycroft was chubbier, too. And why would such an attractive man want to be with a fattie? And so Mycroft diets and admires from afar for years and years, until Lestrade says one day, "Jesus, just buy me a drink and ask me to come back to yours, what is the problem here? I'll say yes, you know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere, Something Incredible

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Written April 2011.

 

_Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known._

\- Carl Sagan

  


*

Mycroft Holmes had never been in love.

Love was tedious, dull, pedestrian.

And then he met Gregory Lestrade, and it turned out that actually, love wasn't all that tedious _or_ dull. It was strange and exhilarating and just a little bit heartbreaking.

Greg Lestrade was a good-looking man. Well-built and handsome in a rough, manly kind of way that Mycroft found almost unbearably attractive. He was a freshly minted Detective Inspector, intelligent, resourceful and endlessly patient.

Mycroft had never met anyone that _worried_ about Sherlock like he did.

Falling in love with Lestrade had been as natural and unthinking as breathing. He wasn't even aware of it happening, he had no idea of it.

Not until one awful winter's night when Lestrade called him and said he'd found Mycroft's brother, unconscious and barely breathing, in some godawful pit in London's underbelly, and that Mycroft needed to get to the hospital right the hell now.

Seven hours later, sitting in a pristine hallway outside the room in which his baby brother was just clinging to a life he didn't appear to care for all that much, his suit wrinkled and his face gaunt, Lestrade brought him a cup of cheap, dreadful coffee. He sat down next to him, squeezed his shoulder, and looked at him with such compassion in his exhausted eyes and Mycroft _knew_.

*

Mycroft Holmes was a realist. He knew exactly how much water the glass contained, to the last millilitre, and left all that half-full, half-empty business to the philosophers.

Lestrade was an attractive, intelligent, successful man. He was, in short, a catch. And Mycroft knew, that for all his position and power, that he himself was not particularly attractive. Sallow, overweight and always slightly uncomfortable in his skin. Not the sort of man to interest someone like Greg Lestrade.

Which was where the heartbreaking aspect of being in love first struck him.

It was rather uncomfortable, he mused, not unlike he imagined a weightlifter sitting on one's chest would feel like.

So Mycroft watched, and occasionally intervened when it seemed like Sherlock was about to cause more trouble than Mycroft could easily fix. He got to know Lestrade a little better, one tiny packet of understanding at a time.

He came to know that Lestrade had three brothers, all older, and that he'd never met his father. He discovered that he preferred white wine over red and that he liked Thai food, but only from the grotty little shop around the corner from the Yard. And he learned that Lestrade dated both men and women, but that he hadn't been in a serious relationship since his marriage had ended, nearly four years previously.

It was endlessly fascinating. Mycroft stored every snippet of information carefully away, in a locked corner of his mind, and guarded them jealously.

Mycroft watched. And he waited.

*

Mycroft Holmes was not a coward.

One did not rise to the position he was in be being afraid of other people. He could stare down presidents and emperors, he'd mediated peace talks in the Middle East, he'd gotten Sherlock clean.

But there was something about Greg Lestrade that turned his insides upside down and made him think that maybe it was okay to be a coward, just this once. One day he'd ask him, smoothly and nonchalantly, if he wanted to have a drink, or dinner, or forever. Just not today.

And, as it does, not today turned into six years.

*

The crime scene was nothing special, not really anything to warrant Sherlock's attention. But he was there nonetheless, and he was making trouble, and Mycroft knew he should be on hand to deal with the fallout from Sherlock's theatrics. He wasn't in the mood to bail Sherlock out of jail again.

He watched in silent contemplation as Sherlock strode away from the scene, John Watson at his side, as always. The crisis had been averted (John had talked Sherlock into leaving, and Mycroft still couldn't believe his luck that Sherlock had stumbled into some sort of relationship with someone who could convince him to do _anything,_ let  alone something that would make Mycroft's life easier) and the team from Scotland Yard were preparing to leave.

"Can't believe he's the same drug-addled madman that stumbled onto my crime scene all those years ago."

Lestrade was beside him, arms crossed, staring after Sherlock and John. Mycroft felt the familiar warmth in his face and clenching in his chest that six years had completely failed to prepare him for.

"Indeed," was all he said, his voice quiet and calm.

"John's been bloody good for him," Lestrade continued. Mycroft nodded, but couldn't stop himself adding,

"You were 'bloody good' for him, Gregory."

And, well, maybe today was his day for not being a coward, because he'd never before addressed Lestrade by his first name. Mycroft could feel his pulse quicken in anticipation, although of what, precisely, he couldn't say.

Lestrade was watching him now, a curious expression on handsome face. Mycroft swallowed. His brief, flickering courage fled.

"Well, thank you for everything, Lestrade. My office will be in contact regarding the necessary paperwork to make that assault charge... disappear," he said, as smoothly as he could manage. Turning back towards his car, he made it to the door before he felt a large, strong hand gripping his shoulder, turning him.

"Look, Mycroft," Lestrade began, and he was standing close, much closer than he ever had before, and Mycroft could smell his aftershave and see the little flecks of silver that peppered his stubble, and his lips were right there and the dreams Mycroft had had about those lips... He forced his thoughts back on track, and raised his eyes from Lestrade's lips to his eyes.

Lestrade gave an exasperated sigh, but the corners of his mouth were tugging upwards.

"Jesus, just buy me a drink and ask me to come back to yours, will you? I'll say yes, you know."

Mycroft blinked.

"I-I'm sorry?" he stammered, actually stammered. He'd never stammered in his life.

Lestrade was definitely smiling now.

"It's what you want, isn't it? Come on, let's go. You can buy me a drink, and tell me what Sherlock was like as a kid, I bet he was a bloody terror."

Mycroft's hearing was exceptional, his brain unequalled, but he could still not quite wrap his head around the words Lestrade was forming. Six years of unrequited love had conditioned his mind to work a certain way, and this wasn't anywhere on the roadmap. 

Lestrade grinned at him, and stepped a bit closer.

"I've been waiting a very long time for you, Mycroft Holmes, but I think I'm done now."

With that, Lestrade tugged on his lapels and pulled him down into a thorough, completely dizzying kiss. Having thought about this moment before, Mycroft was now in a position to reflect that his imagination really hadn't been able to do justice to the feeling of Lestrade's warm, dry lips on his, his subtle, earthy scent, and, oh, that delightfully wicked thing he seemed to be able to do with his tongue.

It felt a little like being hit over the head, the world-tilting magnitude of it. Standing here, being kissed by this brave, wonderful man he'd been in love with for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like _not_ to love him.

Slowly, he gave up and relaxed into the kiss, allowing himself to enjoy what he’d wanted for years. There were things that needed to be talked about, in particular what exactly Lestrade had meant by _a very long time_. There were explanations to be offered and paradigms that needed resetting. But for now, Mycroft was going to stand here, in the crisp autumn air, and revel in what felt like a gift from the cosmos, a tiny perfect moment carved out just for him.


End file.
